Bureaucratically Induced Trauma

Trigger Warning: incarceration, general childhood unpleasantness

Tucked away on some hill near Seattle is a concrete monolith of a building; standing among houses, gas stations, and normal life. People drive by without a slightest clue in the purpose of this communistic, concrete, leviathan. It is no secret what this building is for, one could hardly pass without seeing its draconian façade, but I have a feeling most would not want to know its true purpose when you don’t have to, when you can just move on, and pass by. Unfortunately for me I was not so lucky.

The sky was always overcast when we drove up. We'd jump out of our Suburban exhausted from sitting for hours and start the final leg of the pilgrimage undertaken by one contingent of my family or another on an almost weekly basis. One hundred and seventy-nine miles, along the rainiest road in the world; from North Plains to SeaTac. The walk into the building would often be accompanied by games of tag between my two younger brothers and myself, followed by dirty looks from my three older siblings.

Entering the waiting area, the sealing seemed to fall away as the room reached for the heavens. Great seals of all-powerful and all-good authorities where hung about. I was just starting to read (which had been a late feature for me) and could make out two of the three words Federal and Investigation but a middle word which started with a B was outside of my ability. After waiting for whatever the proper amount of time was we where allowed to move onto the next layer. Going into and out of pieces of equipment used to detect if my siblings or I where concealing weapons, following every order to a tee. We did out best not anger the overseers of the operation... most of the time we would for one infraction or another and have to start the process over. Once all initial checks had been performed we where corralled with the rest of the damned to be escorted through the inferno.

A loud square note was heard from the door and our Virgil, in the form of a guard, barked us forward from behind. We walked into a small room a vault door in front and one that was about to slam shut behind. When a moment after Virgil entered, a rush of bleach soaked air pulsed through the small area as the door at rear was slammed shut. In Spite of the gray paint and drab nondescript cloths of the occupants, all seemed ghastly and decaying as they were lit with that cheap green antiseptic government light that cascaded down from the wretched authority placed on high.

A second guard would be standing off to the side in an area that was clearly noted as his, by a square of black duct tape around him. He stood there, chest puffed out, as if the tape, which seemed to have been a hasty job done years ago, was a shield of invincibility that would protect him from any of the wrongs occurring around him. He was different from us, above us, over us. What was he supposed to do? Give us all a smile and a hug and tell us everything was going to be ok? No, he was a guard in the prison system, where strength was needed to keep the citizens, duly convicted of crimes, in a place to somehow repay their debts to society. He probably saw himself as some kind of guardian, or a hero silently working day-in, day-out to defend peace and tranquility. Or maybe not, maybe it was just a paycheck and a pension, as honest as any other. At any rate, all he did was stand behind a taped off square and herd sheep with his loud voice.

Every time I became stuck in this room the world was suspended. We were stuck, stopped, stagnant and motionless in every way. No thoughts, no anger, no joy, no loss, just a poorly lit, humid, way station. The diverse pulling of people would stand in the room and stew in silence: thinking of nothing: being nothing. The only noise allowed in this room was the belligerent door and booming guard. Nothing else. While never instructed directly, upon entering for the first time the expectation was undeniable. We would stand there, stopped, voided, and null as a humans until the cogs of bureaucracy had operated at their single velocity to arrive at their requisited positions. A heart stopping, deafening buzz followed by a thunderous clash of a locking mechanism unwillingly cracking open would send the next door sluggishly sliding as if the Morannon itself. The guard, omnipotent behind his tape of invincibility, would inform us of forward movement as Virgil pushed from behind into the next circle.

This dance would repeat once more. Another guard, more tape, another set of doors, more antiseptic green light, another moment hanging in an infinity where I was no longer living and my soul was no longer valued.

This ritual, completed with absolute disregard of feeling, was a real shock at first, but become old hat quick. The faces on every person from the world, full of vibrant color, would turn green and gaunt as soon as they stepped foot into the building of rules and regulations where convicted men were kept. I don’t think I ever saw a single smile in the waiting area, and I certainly never saw one in that room. Lips might move to try and create something resembling one—but much like screaming into vacuum—nothing would ever come out. The most drastic change would be in my brothers and sister. Starting as a boisterous group of five boys and one girl, we would fall to six small foreigners in this odd and unforgiving land. Our warm flesh of rosy cheeks and tan be-freckled skin, drained and replaced with cracked and scowling green faces with torn holes where the eyes and mouth go when we where walking through this place.

Nothing was ever right in there. In spite of the temperature; humid and always two degrees above comfortable, it was cold—in spite of the structure; encompassing, thick and impenetrable, it was desolate—in spite of the guards and the bureaucrats being people, it was alien—and in spite of the very real and actual events it seemed outside of the purview of all reality.

Sometimes when I just want to feel again, good or bad, it stops me. The objects of my dreams and my nightmares are held at bay—weather I consent or not. Always they are there...the green light...the rancid bleach...and the steel doors. And there I am trapped, suspended, and voided